Introduced by Claire-Louise Bennett, experience one new mother's psychological journey in this lost 1930 foremother of Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar.
'Astonishing and moving. A pretty amazing book.' Tessa Hadley
'Extraordinary. A fascinating and unexpected delight.' Lucy Ellmann
'Haunting and evocative, this is a timeless portrayal of madness.' Catherine Cho
'A startling, luminous and magnetic novel about the complexity of motherhood.' Yiyun Li
'With its deep musicality, Coleman's unforgettable voice was years ahead of its time.' Sinéad Gleeson
The only thing to do is to put hammers in the porridge and when there are enough hammers we shall break down the windows and all of us shall dance in the snow.
Some days, Marthe Gail believes she is God; others, Jesus Christ. Her baby, she thinks, is dead. The red light is shining. There are bars on the window. And the voices keep talking.
Time blurs; snow falls. The doctors say it is a breakdown; that this is Gorestown State Hospital. Her fellow patients become friends and enemies, moving between the Day Room and Dining Hall, East Hall and West Side, avoiding the Strong Room. Her husband visits and shows her a lock of her baby's hair, but she doesn't remember, yet - until she can make it upstairs, ascending towards release ...
Shocking and hilarious, tragic and visceral, this experimental portrait of motherhood and mental illness written in 1930 has never felt more visionary.
Introduced by Claire-Louise Bennett, experience one new mother's psychological journey in this lost 1930 foremother of Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar.
'Extraordinary. A fascinating and unexpected delight.' Lucy Ellmann
'Haunting and evocative, this is a timeless portrayal of madness.' Catherine Cho
'A startling, luminous and magnetic novel about the complexity of motherhood.' Yiyun Li
'With its deep musicality, Coleman's unforgettable voice was years ahead of its time.' Sinéad Gleeson
The only thing to do is to put hammers in the porridge and when there are enough hammers we shall break down the windows and all of us shall dance in the snow.
Some days, Marthe Gail believes she is God; others, Jesus Christ. Her baby, she thinks, is dead. The red light is shining. There are bars on the window. And the voices keep talking.
Time blurs; snow falls. The doctors say it is a breakdown; that this is Gorestown State Hospital. Her fellow patients become friends and enemies, moving between the Day Room and Dining Hall, East Hall and West Side, avoiding the Strong Room. Her husband visits and shows her a lock of her baby's hair, but she doesn't remember, yet - until she can make it upstairs, ascending towards release ...
Shocking and hilarious, tragic and visceral, this experimental portrait of motherhood and mental illness written in 1930 has never felt more visionary.
